


A Voice To Calm You

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dirty Talk, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:19:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4782053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words across Thedas. Futurefic with minor spoilers for Trespasser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Voice To Calm You

**Author's Note:**

> Bri is heavily implicated in this fic being a thing, as is [a certain individual's (VERY NSFW) art](http://sometrashland.tumblr.com/post/128835581018). Thanks friends.

Against Dorian's chest, the crystal hummed with quiet life. The rhythm of breathing. A steady heartbeat, a fraction slower than Dorian's own. 

Dorian pressed his hand between his legs. Not urgently, not stroking himself, only the shift of his fingertips against his cock. Think about how that heartbeat feels against your skin. Think of the heat of the Bull, the weight of him—

Ah.

A question asked, the words indistinct, and then there was the Bull's voice, distant and low but entirely clear. "Nah, I'm good for tonight." 

Dorian imagined: a few of the old core group of the Chargers settling in for drinks and cards. A barmaid smiling encouragingly, looking the Bull up and down, all his muscles and scars and the soft fat of his stomach, the handsome bow of his lips.

The Bull's footfalls set a wooden staircase creaking. Dorian's cock began to fill, a slow build of anticipation. Fingers of his other hand to his mouth, reflexive, to cover the smallest of hitches in his breathing. The soft sigh that followed.

A door snicked shut. The bolt protested being pulled, groaned against its casing.

"Dorian," the Bull said. He would be smiling, wouldn't he—smiling with his whole face, his eyes gone all soft and fond. "Sorry about that. Ran over on a job. We only just got cleaned up."

It was a rush of affection that made Dorian close his eyes, the feeling swelling in his throat. The Bull, who ran late but let Dorian listen to the last of his day anyway, gave him the security of knowing: nothing to fear.

"Oh," he said, "I wouldn't worry about that, I've been keeping myself tolerably entertained."

"Hmm," the Bull said, the sound a deep rumble that Dorian felt through his chest, spreading from the crystal almost as though the Bull really were leaning in over him, considering. A little hint of aroused interest to it, edging it towards a growl. "You want to tell me about that?"

Dorian laughed, a touch breathless; thought, madly, of saying something else entirely—no, I want to tell you about my feelings—

How ridiculous.

"Well, if you will leave me unattended," he said, smiling, head tilted back to bare his neck, as though the Bull could see that, touch it. "If you _will_ leave me unattended—you really cannot expect me to wait for you."

" _Dorian,_ " the Bull said again.

"I've been thinking," Dorian said, sighed in pleasure as he closed his fingers more firmly around his cock—still not stroking, only reminding himself of the need that lived in him, filled him. "About your hands, if you really must know." A hand on his throat, a little caress. He swallowed, felt the movement against his own fingers. 

"And touching yourself," the Bull said, so _insufferably_ smug. "Going to make a guy think he's special."

"That wouldn't do at all," Dorian said. 

The Bull laughed. Dorian wanted to kiss him.

"Fuck, kadan," the Bull said. "I've been thinking about you all day. The look you get when you've just come for the third time and you can't quite believe it. The way you clutch at me when you're worried I'm not going to leave enough marks."

"You are—ludicrous," Dorian said, and was entirely betrayed by his voice.

" _Oh,_ " the Bull said. "You're desperate for it already. Shit. That's _hot_."

"It has been rather too long," Dorian said. Too sincere, too soft, but that was—that was allowed. It had also been a rather long day, and he was feeling that particular sort of heavy tiredness which only the Magisterium had ever managed to inspire in him, and which only the Bull or an entire week of sleep could really lift. If the Bull could just restrain him, hold him helpless and desperate until he was floating on it—

"Yeah," the Bull said. "I know."

Kindness. This was where the Bull would run his fingers through Dorian's hair, and Dorian would fuss half-heartedly about it and lean into the touch anyway.

And maybe he would ask for what he wanted. Maybe he could do that now, alone in this room, speaking into empty air. 

The curtains lifted in the evening breeze. A place the Bull had never touched. That it wasn't safe for him to see. Home, and not quite home.

"Tie me up next time," Dorian said. 

The Bull groaned. "Shit yeah." The heavy sound of his belt hitting the floor, metal and leather. "Get your hands behind your back, have you kneel for me—yeah. Think I can manage something. You want that?"

"You know I do."

"How about you kneel for me now," the Bull said, and heat flared through Dorian, a flash fire deep in his belly.

" _Yes,_ " he said, and scrambled to do it, legs folded under him on the bed, knees spread. A hand on his cock still, little restless touches. Foreskin slid up over the head of his cock, pulled back again. A fingertip pressed to his damp slit. He shuddered.

The crystal on its chain stayed hanging over his sternum, a comforting weight around his neck.

"You with me?" the Bull asked, and Dorian groaned an affirmative. "Wish I could see you now."

"As well you might," Dorian said. An unsteady laugh. Heat between his legs, an ache beneath his ribs. His hands felt electrified, the hum of a coming storm buzzing through his skin, through all the small joints. Only from the sound of the Bull's voice, his words. From the smallest amount of stimulation. "I am, after all, the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen."

"Mm," the Bull said. "You're blushing. You always blush when you tell the truth in bed."

"Bull," Dorian said. "If you plan to needle me all night, I must tell you—"

"Just admiring," the Bull said. "You're so fucking amazing, can't blame a man for imagining a little."

" _Bull,_ " Dorian said again, urgent, hot.

"Yeah," the Bull said, "I know. Hmm, I want to kneel behind you. Tease you open with my fingers. Get my other hand on your neck, make you turn your head so I can kiss you. See how hard and desperate I can get you like that. See if I can get you off without touching your dick."

Where was the Bull then? Some tavern room, his pack slung in a corner, an ugly old blanket on the bed. Ferelden, the Chargers were in Ferelden—some hideous set of antlers on the wall, then; a painting of a dreary landscape in twenty shades of muddy green to keep them company. 

Dorian did not miss these things. Did not feel a pang of longing for a time when they had been his everyday life. His rooms were large and beautiful, arched windows opening onto a broad balcony, richly coloured fabrics on the floor, on the walls. The air was warm and humid, and the sounds of the city were distant and comfortable, and to reach the Bull would mean long weeks of travel.

Enough. Did the Bull stand, leaning against the wall? Kneel, too, on the bed, in an echo of that promise? 

"If I knelt on the floor," Dorian said, with an air of academic contemplation he certainly did not feel, "you could, of course, fuck my face. I suppose."

The Bull groaned. "And you'd let me mess up your hair."

He must be touching himself now. The thought jolted through Dorian, although they had done this so many times before. Somewhere, the Bull was naked, and thinking of Dorian, and he couldn't keep his hands off himself. How novel the thought seemed, every time. He thought of the crystals Calpernia had used, the ghost-images they had formed, some adjustment to the enchantment. It would be something, to see—

But the thought was a fragmented thing, fleeting.

"I would," Dorian said, imagining massive hands in his hair, chasing the exact feeling, the tight pleasure-pain across his scalp as the Bull tugged at his hair. The way it would spread down his neck. He longed for the weight of the Bull's cock on his tongue. "Far be it from me to deny you your little pleasures—oh, mm—tell me—"

"Fuck, Dorian," the Bull said. "Your mouth's the cleverest thing—got my hand on my dick and it's not the same." A low curse. "Give me something of yours next time. Want to carry the smell of you with me, breathe it in while I listen to your voice—"

"I took one of your pillows," Dorian said in a rush, unsteady, unguarded, a creature of longing. Magister Pavus built careful walls, all strategy. Dorian let them fall. "Last time."

"Fuck," the Bull said again, fervent, groaned on an inhale. "You still smell me on it?"

"A little," Dorian said.

"I was going to have you stay kneeling, finger yourself," the Bull said. "But I think you should press your face into that pillow of mine. You want that, right? Me all around you."

Oh, it ought to be embarrassing: rearranging himself on his bed, curling around a pillow whose scent had almost faded while the Bull murmured to him, all the filthy things he'd do, all the things he was doing right then. But none of the heat he felt was shame. No shame in love, and none in fucking. Lessons slowly learnt over years. How much of a giddy rush it had been to flirt with the Bull in public, those first months. If you choose to leave your door unlocked like a savage—

Dorian, curled on his side on the bed, his face turned towards the pillow, stroked himself and moaned.

"Yes, that's it," the Bull said, coaxing, encouraging. "Nice slow strokes. Press up behind your balls with your other hand. Feel that weight against your palm. You're getting close, aren't you? Me too. Lying here imagining your expression. Let go. I've got you."

Dorian came with a gasp, spilling across the sheets; cried out open-mouthed against the pillow as those waves of feeling kept pulsing through him, the sounds of the Bull's own pleasure all he could hear.

They breathed together for a time. Dorian's hand rested between his legs, back to an idle press, chasing the last aftershocks. Were he in Ferelden he would begin to feel cold, sweat drawing the heat from his skin. Here it hardly felt like anything at all. Breathe in, breathe out, slow it, make it even. He counted the beats of the Bull's heart again, let them steer him.

Finally the Bull began to talk again, the fragments of simple affection and love that he favoured in these quiet moments, in the after, while Dorian was relaxed and drifting and wanted to hear them. It felt like the careful touches the Bull had for him when they were together, smoothing his hair back from his face, stroking over his back, cleaning him gently.

Something to ground him.

"Amatus," Dorian said, soft and still half-drifting, "you're far too good to me."

"Nah," the Bull said. "I couldn't be that."

"Oh," Dorian said, and there were no disarming words to be had. Here he was, with the absolute belief that the Bull put into his words. He found he could accept them.

He sighed, content in that moment, in the intimacy that could be shared despite half a world between them.

"Tell me then, amatus," he said, careless of the fact that he really ought to clean up, change the sheets, get all the rest he could before he was obliged to be Magister Pavus again. "What did you do with your day other than think of me?"

And the Bull laughed, and told him.


End file.
